Crimson Flowers
by SnapshotsOfEternity
Summary: Someone once said that anything can be turned into a weapon. Someone else said words are the greatest weapons of all. Set in Azkaban Prison, post war. One-shot. Rated T for references to suicide/murder and discussion of death.


The Harry Potter universe is (c) J.K. Rowling and not owned by me.

* * *

**Crimson Flowers**

A thin beam of sunlight breaks through the cover of clouds, not enough to reveal the magnificent blue depths of the sky, but enough to let a tiny ray of sunlight pass. The brilliant light falls on an unthinkable spot and illuminates another tragedy in a world where misery walks hand in hand with men, women and those still too young to be called either.

The light uncovers a revelation of something different in a world where all is black and grey and cold: A ripe red rose blooming in the courtyard, opening its petals under the grey sky. A Cinnabar moth that has fallen to the ground and lies with broken wings in the shape of a young man who is leaking life in gentle streams from punctured arteries and ruptured veins. A miracle of crimson and cerise, which spreads through fabric, seeps into the ground, pools in bowls of black stone, and colours the dust a royal shade of red.

There is an island somewhere in the North Sea. An outpost of black cliff and lacklustre stone unsuitable of sustaining any natural life except sickly green algae near the waterline, and the seabirds which has recently returned to nest in the cracks and crevices of the rock face. Its appearance as uninviting as its name, Azkaban Island is not a place which welcomes habitation.

The courtyard of Azkaban Prison is an empty patch of dirt. There are no colours there, just empty planes of grey and greyish brown. There is no life there except the rare prisoner who is let out into the glare of daylight which is so different from the darkness their eyes are accustomed to. They scramble in the light like nocturnal animals caught outside after dawn, frightened and confused. If they still possess the mental abilities to generate such states of mind.

The courtyard is surrounded by tall walls the colour of dust, dread and despair. The colour of insanity. There are windows in the walls, small, barred, pane less holes which offer only a minimal amount of daylight to the wretched souls within, only a tiny square of sky to remind them that there is something Outside. That what they had before is not a figment of an overactive imagination. That the world is more than this place with its colourless void and the seldom speck of wonderful, magnificent cobalt sky.

The prison itself is a murky structure rising from the top of the island. It is a manmade fortress designed not to keep enemies out, but to hold them in. Its dark walls loom above the ragged cliffs of the isle and the vast expanse of the sea. It stands like a monolith of nightmares incarnated. And though it has recently been razed of any inhuman monsters to guard the inmates, there are still monsters locked in stone cells and monsters roaming the passages. There are plenty to fill not just one or two horror stories, but a whole library.

Every single one of the still sane souls within the prison's womb, every single one which have been labelled wicked, evil and malign by the ones Outside, dreams of a way out of the Hell they have to call their home. Everyone still capable prays for an end to the suffering before madness claims them. But though they are all bound to die in the end, almost everyone is destined to realise that God has deserted them. That the Great Father will not allow them the easy way out. That they must suffer the penalty of their sins before he welcomes them back in his arms.

Almost everyone, but not all.

The cacophony cries of the seabirds mix with the crashing of the waves in a funeral melody rising and falling with the sea. Only the hard cliffs cry salty tears for the one who has just been liberated.

Someone once said that anything can be turned into a weapon. Someone else said that words are the greatest weapon of all. All it takes is a little bit of imagination and creativity.

* * *

This is a story I've had laying around for quite a while. It's the first I've ever finished, and published, so any suggestions as to how I may improve my writing is very welcome

I have left it intentionally vague as to what exactly is going on and how it happened, so that my readers may make up their own story to go along with it. I have only written Draco as the main character because he is whom I see in this story. In truth it could be anyone incarcerated in Azkaban. I really hope some of you will write and tell me what your imagination created between the lines.

Thanks for reading and I hope you liked it :)


End file.
